Rather important little note: This fic is not a fic at all. It is a conglomeration of small drabbles, pieces of stories that do not belong in any fic. These were all challenges, where a phrase and the word count were given to me, and I wrote something in response to the challenge. I like some of them, so I'm posting them here, in this story thing. New drabbles go into new chapters. None of them go together. They're just here.
--
Challenge #7
Phrase: "Learn to live a little."
Word Count: 801
Rating: PG-13
Title: All the World's a Stage
Author: Rydia Highwind
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid and Metal Gear Solid 2 and all characters refered to herein belong to Konami. I claim nothing, I'm simply borrowing.
Summary: Just a personal take on everyone's favorite vindictive, sociopathical, fratricide-attempting pretty boy.
Warning: Liquid is kind of obsessive and scary. oO;
--
He liked to examine his hands. It was a small habit he'd grown into after a point where he'd somehow managed to gash his right palm open with a scout knife during training. The blood had fascinated him for whatever reason, and even when they'd insisted he bandage it, he would purposely aggravate the wound just to see the pristine white of the bandages redden with his blood. It wasn't hard--he was right handed, after all. Even though now, near twenty years later, the scar was long faded and he wore a set of brown leather gloves most of the time anyway, it was a habit he'd never fully grown out of.
He never faced the person he spoke to, not at first, simply because then he had an advantage. He had the appearance of apathy, the illusion of self-importance--hell, someone had accused him of arrogance before. Ha! If only that poor bastard had known what went through his mind! Then he wouldn't have been so quick to pass judgment. Not that it mattered...it never did. Everyone in the entire goddamn world was so quick to give their worthless opinions, not realizing that no one really cared. He never faced the person he spoke to, and it gave him something beyond an illusion. It also gave his words a theatrical importance when he actually did turn to speak.
He had studied theatre when he was younger, not because the subject held a particular interest for him, but because he had been so thoroughly disgusted with who he was that he wanted to act like someone else. He wanted to BE someone else, someone better. His actions became exaggerated for the stage with time, his every move calculated for the benefit of his audience, whether that be paying patrons waiting to see some thespian production or simply the person he was speaking to. His father, of course, had never approved of such un-soldier-like behavior, said he "simply wouldn't have it", said that he should get out on the battlefield and "learn to live a little", and quite frankly, he didn't care. His father meant nothing to him. Less than nothing! Big Boss was the very one who had made such acting necessary in the first place! Let him not have it, it wasn't important.
It was all theatrics that dictated his motions, allowing those around him to believe that he was more than he was when really all that showed was the shell of a man long dead, long tormented, and long scornful. His anger had become a twisted, vulgar obsession, a desire--no, a need to torment the one chosen over him, the one who had somehow, though they'd never met, had managed to destroy his entire life. The man who, with is unknowing dominance, had left his lesser brother to rot in the dust. And that was the real point of anger; he didn't even know of his superiority.
Almost as though he wasn't superior at all.
He made plans. Plans were things he could follow through with, things he could check off of a list in his mind, things he could chart his own progress with. He followed plans constantly; sometimes it seemed that his entire life was nothing but a large plan, and he supposed that was probably true. It was a plan to live and then to die as a greater entity than the one he had been born as. For acting was not good enough for him any longer. Now he had to prove his own worth. Not to his father, not to his brother, not to the world, but to himself. He was the actor and he alone knew the man who lived inside, and therefore, he was the only one that needed proof.
His brother had already disrupted his plans to take out his father. That was to be his proof to Big Boss, that even though he had made the choice to make him the inferior one of his sons, that he could overcome that and all the bullshit that had been fed to him over the years and destroy the one who had created him. And his brother had denied him that honor. So now it was in his plans to destroy his brother, Solid Snake. The years gave way and his plans grew. Grew into an obsession so twisted and horrible that he was almost ashamed of himself. He knew exactly what he would do to his brother on that blessed day that they finally met face to face. And here was his chance. Snake was the one he didn't face now, the one whom he favored studying his gloved hands to looking at.
He turned to look, impressed in spite of himself. "Can you hear me, Solid Snake?"
--
Challenge #7
Phrase: "Learn to live a little."
Word Count: 801
Rating: PG-13
Title: All the World's a Stage
Author: Rydia Highwind
Disclaimer: Metal Gear Solid and Metal Gear Solid 2 and all characters refered to herein belong to Konami. I claim nothing, I'm simply borrowing.
Summary: Just a personal take on everyone's favorite vindictive, sociopathical, fratricide-attempting pretty boy.
Warning: Liquid is kind of obsessive and scary. oO;
--
He liked to examine his hands. It was a small habit he'd grown into after a point where he'd somehow managed to gash his right palm open with a scout knife during training. The blood had fascinated him for whatever reason, and even when they'd insisted he bandage it, he would purposely aggravate the wound just to see the pristine white of the bandages redden with his blood. It wasn't hard--he was right handed, after all. Even though now, near twenty years later, the scar was long faded and he wore a set of brown leather gloves most of the time anyway, it was a habit he'd never fully grown out of.
He never faced the person he spoke to, not at first, simply because then he had an advantage. He had the appearance of apathy, the illusion of self-importance--hell, someone had accused him of arrogance before. Ha! If only that poor bastard had known what went through his mind! Then he wouldn't have been so quick to pass judgment. Not that it mattered...it never did. Everyone in the entire goddamn world was so quick to give their worthless opinions, not realizing that no one really cared. He never faced the person he spoke to, and it gave him something beyond an illusion. It also gave his words a theatrical importance when he actually did turn to speak.
He had studied theatre when he was younger, not because the subject held a particular interest for him, but because he had been so thoroughly disgusted with who he was that he wanted to act like someone else. He wanted to BE someone else, someone better. His actions became exaggerated for the stage with time, his every move calculated for the benefit of his audience, whether that be paying patrons waiting to see some thespian production or simply the person he was speaking to. His father, of course, had never approved of such un-soldier-like behavior, said he "simply wouldn't have it", said that he should get out on the battlefield and "learn to live a little", and quite frankly, he didn't care. His father meant nothing to him. Less than nothing! Big Boss was the very one who had made such acting necessary in the first place! Let him not have it, it wasn't important.
It was all theatrics that dictated his motions, allowing those around him to believe that he was more than he was when really all that showed was the shell of a man long dead, long tormented, and long scornful. His anger had become a twisted, vulgar obsession, a desire--no, a need to torment the one chosen over him, the one who had somehow, though they'd never met, had managed to destroy his entire life. The man who, with is unknowing dominance, had left his lesser brother to rot in the dust. And that was the real point of anger; he didn't even know of his superiority.
Almost as though he wasn't superior at all.
He made plans. Plans were things he could follow through with, things he could check off of a list in his mind, things he could chart his own progress with. He followed plans constantly; sometimes it seemed that his entire life was nothing but a large plan, and he supposed that was probably true. It was a plan to live and then to die as a greater entity than the one he had been born as. For acting was not good enough for him any longer. Now he had to prove his own worth. Not to his father, not to his brother, not to the world, but to himself. He was the actor and he alone knew the man who lived inside, and therefore, he was the only one that needed proof.
His brother had already disrupted his plans to take out his father. That was to be his proof to Big Boss, that even though he had made the choice to make him the inferior one of his sons, that he could overcome that and all the bullshit that had been fed to him over the years and destroy the one who had created him. And his brother had denied him that honor. So now it was in his plans to destroy his brother, Solid Snake. The years gave way and his plans grew. Grew into an obsession so twisted and horrible that he was almost ashamed of himself. He knew exactly what he would do to his brother on that blessed day that they finally met face to face. And here was his chance. Snake was the one he didn't face now, the one whom he favored studying his gloved hands to looking at.
He turned to look, impressed in spite of himself. "Can you hear me, Solid Snake?"